


Cultured Man

by InkyKinky



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: Alcohol, Alternate Universe - 1980s, Alternate Universe - College/University, Cigarettes, First Kiss, Fluff, Getting Together, JeanMarco Gift Exchange 2015, JeanMarco Secret Santa 2015, M/M, Nerd Marco Bott, Punk Jean Kirstein, Smoking, also staring my horrible sense of humour and distaste for certain bands, band au if you squint
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-24
Updated: 2015-12-24
Packaged: 2018-05-07 23:26:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,589
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5474441
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/InkyKinky/pseuds/InkyKinky
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>If they were in Hollywood, Jean at least half as cool and rude as he always pretended to be, and Marco a girl, they would’ve been the match made in heaven. But they weren’t staring in some Hollywood movies, neither could they deny that they were both guys and friends since elementary school, so there was that.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Cultured Man

**Author's Note:**

  * For [shingekinoboyfriends](https://archiveofourown.org/users/shingekinoboyfriends/gifts).



> Dear Annie, I hope it's dramatic enough, it got more and more fun to write the longer I was writing on this, and thanks for the prompt, it was wonderful. Also be prepared for giant dork Jean, my awkward puppy. *peace sign emoji*
> 
> Also bless [Foxberry](http://archiveofourown.org/users/foxberry) for being such a wonderful last-minute beta. <333 I can't be greatful enough.
> 
> A little bit inspired by _[Cultured Man](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=elouvvondwY)_ by The Zolas.  
>  "Just to impress you, my love, just to impress you."
> 
> side-note: This is placed in Germany where your legal drinking/smoking age is 18, which wasn't that way in the 80s though (there you could smoke at least with 16, and drinking soft alcohol like wine and beer with 14 I guess)  
> I also have no clue of 80s slang so please forgive me.
> 
> I also have a [twitter](http://www.twitter.com/inky_thoughts) and [tumblr](http://inkykinky.tumblr.com)

Jean was screwed. _So screwed._

His boxers were soaked, a creamy texture clinging coolly on his stomach and thighs, and he felt awfully much like a teenage boy. That he technically wasn’t anymore for forty-six days by now.

 _So_ screwed.

He somewhat managed to roll out of his bed without hitting his head on the roof pitch for the nth time this week, and waddled awkwardly to the bathroom. He hissed at the cold tiles underneath his feet, hissing even more when his heels dug into a wet patch on their rug, a converted towel, from Eren’s midnight shower shenanigans last night. It was cold and Jean was frowning. The world was apparently against him.

He wiggled out of his clothes, not an exactly easy task in his still semi-asleep state and the general discomfort of drenched cotton, and when he stood there, naked, halfway in the shower, he suddenly _realised_ , and it felt like bathing in a tub of ice water. _This wasn’t real, this was a dream, he couldn’t be in that deep, could he?_

He let out a whine that he was sure woke Eren and Armin in the neighbouring room by now, and all his shame poured over him, together with the still cold shower water. _How could he ever look into his eyes again?_

 

Truth was, he _could_ , and that less than twelve hours after his uncomfortable wake-up call.

 _He_ was a preppy sweater-vest wearing, nerdy soon-to-become teacher, a horrible dork if Jean was honest, one of those people who stuck their tongue-tip out whenever they were handling something with precision, one of those boys who could make anyone swoon just with their smile. One of his lower front-teeth was slightly crooked, something that even braces through the entirety of middle-school couldn’t correct, and it reminded Jean that it wasn’t perfect. Twenty-three of his freckles had vanished since last summer, and Jean was scared of himself that he knew this many, actually pretty unimportant facts about his best friend.

_His best friend he had had a wet dream of this morning._

Dark brown eyes that needed lots and lots of squinting or actually quite ugly nerd-glasses that they could read his own scribble-y handwriting. His glasses made them look ridiculously big, so of course the puppy-eyes worked. All. The. Time.

Jean couldn’t remember a single occassion when he had declined Marco a favour.

He had awkwardly long legs that more often than not stumbled over something or someone else, legs some girls would kill for.

Marco was like this nerdy, classic literature girl next door that would meet the hero and evolve like a caterpillar to a butterfly just because she’d take off her ugly glasses and prude clothes. If they were in Hollywood, Jean at least half as cool and rude as he always pretended to be, and Marco a girl, they would’ve been the match made in heaven. But they weren’t staring in some Hollywood movies, neither could they deny that they were both guys and friends since elementary school, so there was that.

Jean took a deep breath when Marco slid his copy of _History of the 19th Century_ towards him and grinned sheepishly, something Marco did quite often lately. The sheepish smiling, not the book-sharing. The book-sharing was something they did since Day 1 since Jean was prone to forget his books, however often his teachers and professors glared at him, judging.

Sometimes Jean wasn’t quite sure what nature laid in their relationship, or rather what he wanted out of this, because being friends with Marco had a lot of perks (like copying homework and getting perfect summaries of the books Jean was too lazy to read.) He wasn’t quite sure about the unexpected hugs though, or the general cuddliness of Marco – which got even worse when he was drunk. He couldn’t tell since when his heart made weird jumps whenever Marco looked at him or brushed his hands or did just anything with or for Jean either – it just _was_ and Jean realised it at some point, just like he realised the urge he had to smash their lips together when they were close, too close in retrospect maybe, or how he had realised this night that he definitely wouldn’t mind to do _other things_ with his still best friend.

Jean managed. He managed to will down his boner whenever the doe-like eyes glanced his way, the lips he kissed in his dream feverishly spelled his name softly, carefully almost, as though not to scare him away. At some point it dawned to him that it was Marco _calling his name_ because he had spaced out once again and their History seminar was over.

“Jean? Jean, Professor Shadis is gone for six minutes now, don’t you wanna leave, we’re gonna miss lunch, y’know?”

A poke in his ribs made Jean jerk out of his trance and stumble to his feet, muttering something incomprehensible, even for himself.

“Bad day, huh?” Marco grinned at him lopsidedly, but not without a frown obviously plastered on his face. The dimples drove Jean crazy the most. It was unfair.

“Just couldn’t sleep pretty well,” he muttered as a reply and rubbed his sinuses. He wasn’t quite sure how much of a lie it was because he really _did_ enjoy himself that night, just the awakening was quite rude. And his alarm clock wasn’t even involved.

“Now come, you punk, I’m starving.” Marco dragged him along with a firm grip, his quick, long strides hard for Jean to match in such a short time. Their walk across campus lead them through a not exactly comfortable May rain since the weather was surprisingly cold for this time of the year, but it didn’t shake Marco’s mood on the prospects of food in the slightest.

The dining hall was noisy, the chatter of students and professors alike floating in the air, together with the clutter of dishes and silverware, and Jean felt himself drifting back into his personal bubble of ignorance once again, with only Marco as his anchor in reality.

It wasn’t unusual, but sometimes it scared him.

Like in trance he put together whatever meal he was going to get, pulling out his student ID for the cashier lady, and following Marco to wherever he decided to sit. In the end, he found himself squeezed between Sasha, who shovelled masses and masses of baked potato into her mouth while feverishly taking notes from a horribly thick English book, and Bert. Today Bert was considerably less sweaty than usual and only jerked whenever Reiner across from him boasted in laughter, so he had one of his better days. Poor kid.

Marco smiled at Jean shyly as he noticed the latter’s glance on him, but didn’t say a word. Maybe a bit impractical since he had a fork of salad in his mouth anyway, apart from the fact that Marco probably _sensed_ that Jean wasn’t really up for talking.

Weirdly enough, the entire day was pretty unspectacular. _Just as my life_ , Jean mused after his dinner of a can of microwaved ravioli, and continued to lazily play some tunes on his acoustic guitar in his lap. He wasn’t very intrigued to do uni work anyway.

He wondered sometimes where his motivation had gone to after the first two months of uni. Sometimes he also wondered whether and especially where there was a point to studying in first place. Sometimes he wished he could believe his uncle and just _Let It Be_ , but somehow this didn’t work for him either. There was no place for him to go, no direction, and he hated it.

He couldn’t put his mind into “finding a girl and marry” either because well, fuck, this wasn’t where he wanted to end. Where _he_ would end. Where his brain – because a heart had purely nothing to do with feelings, it was all his brain, so why did he feel it in his chest? – didn’t want him to go.

An out-of-tune accord.

 _No._ No, his life was just without any prospects.

Eren would say, he’d be wrong, but Jean didn’t care about that gay ass for a moment. Pretty much not.

He wanted to save his own ass, and he had no clue how.

“ _Fuck!_ ” he yelled at his guitar because who else was there to listen but the life-size poster of Mike Zacharias from Titan Fall. _Fuck my life. Fuck everything. Preferably the dork I have a crush on but oh well, fuck everything._

***

He didn’t fuck everything, and especially not Marco. Not yet, and probably not ever. It was frustrating – yes. He hated how _‘GAY’_ was now plastered on his forehead with bright neon letters and he could no longer deny it. Not after he had jerked off several times in a row to the lead singer of his favourite band, and especially not after having a horribly arousing wet dream of his best friend. Three weeks after _the incident_ he sat on the floor of his room again with the guitar on his lap and a scowl on his face.

It was the middle of June, Marco’s birthday only three days from then (as was a concert he was awaiting for months because _holy fuck_ , Trost was such a measly town but Titan Fall was going to be there,) and he still had no present, and even less a clue of what he could gift to his best friend slash crush. It was maddening.

He strung his guitar without any chords in mind, which sounded awfully much like a five-year-old who held a guitar for the very first time, and yelled more than sang about how shitty everything was.

After five minutes of his noise that resembled a dying cat trapped in a stringed instrument, Jean nearly missed the knock on his door, followed by a shout. Apparently, Eren wasn’t enjoying the misery that was Jean’s music.

“Jean Kirschtein, I swear to God, if you don’t shut the fuck up, you gotta do the dishes for at least three months!” he roared from the corridor.

“And I love youuuu toooooo, Ereeeeeen!” The end of Jean’s song was marked by a few very out of tune chords, and the blond really couldn’t suppress a whiny chuckle as he stared at his feet.

“Why are we friends again, Jean?” Eren still hadn’t moved from his place behind the door.

“Because I’m such a charmer and I buy you sweets?” Jean leaned back against his bed-frame, submitting to his defeat of whatever he just had given up on.

“Yeah, yeah, if you say so. By the way, your mum called, she wanted to know if her mail arrived.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?!”

“Because you were busy lamenting over Marco’s _‘sexy ass’_ or something. And I told you now, so shush.”

Jean could _feel_ the eye-roll of Eren’s.

“Yeah, yeah… say, what are _you_ gonna give Marco for his birthday?”

“Jägermeister, why?”

“Of c– wait, I’ve never seen Marco drinking shots, what the heck, Eren?!”

“I’ve always given him Jägermeister, I give everyone Jägermeister if you haven’t noticed yet, what’s your problem, mister?”

“That I have no clue what to give him,” Jean whined again, “I can’t make him a mix-tape because all Marco listens to is Classic or Modern Talking.”Jean made a disgusting face at that.

“But Jean, you know that he really has just one record of _them_ , and just because _you_ mixed it up with the soundtrack of _Modern Times_ –”

“I knoooow… But he liked it! He said he’d love it and for a while he listened to it. _All. The. Time._ ” Jean stressed every syllable.

“When you were around.”

“What?” Jean craned his head towards the door, panic rising inside him. _Did Marco really think he was so fragile that he couldn’t tell him he didn’t like his gift…? Why would Marco suffer through_ Modern Talking _out of all things if he could’ve just said so–_

“Jean, why are you such an idiot at times like this,” Eren sighed, probably shaking his head in disbelief. Jean heard footsteps padding away into the kitchen.

“Wait!” Jean barely noticed how he jumped up onto his feet, tore open the door with the guitar forgotten in his left hand. “What do you mean with this?”

Eren looked at him, half amused, half worried, and had to bite his lip so his grin wouldn’t spread from one ear to the other. He had something dangerous around him.

Jean, a little breathless, stared at him desperately, anxious what the hell Eren meant with all of this. Eren just shrugged.

“Not talking.”

“What the _fuck_ Eren, I thought we were friends?”

“But you’re my _idiot_ friend, Jean.” Eren patted Jean’s right shoulder, in the other hand a cup of coffee he sipped joyfully while watching panic rise in Jean’s eyes. “And as such I’m not allowed to help you in this matter. I thought you’ve got some braincells left somewhere in there.” He poked Jean’s forehead with his knuckle. “Use them, it’s not that hard.”

Jean’s expression turned into a pout, Eren squeezed his shoulder before he let go entirely and moved on to his room.

“I can have the typewriter for my paper, right? You gonna get it back on Sunday or something, I just can’t risk to hand in another one to Professor Ackerman with my handwriting. Thanks buddy.” He raised his mug like for a toast and closed his door, leaving Jean alone in the corridor with his stupid, _stupid_ acoustic guitar.

***

“So, _please_ be entirely honest with me on this, Marco: Do you hate Modern Talking?”

Jean apparently had caught Marco off-guard because the latter stared at him like a deer in the headlights.

“No hard feelings if you do, just wanna know, for the future,” Jean tried to assure him.

“Well, they are… _okay_ , maybe just not my type of music?” Marco glanced at Jean sheepishly. “But I liked the record, I really do! It was… kind of sweet, from you?”

“I actually wanted to give you Modern Times, I’m sorry that you had to listen to this crap all the time I was around.” Jean’s laughter was nervous and he felt blood creeping into his cheeks.

“Oh. And I thought you’d like them. Well, not anymore, but. Y’know.” Marco averted his eyes and awkward silence hung in the air. Jean’s brain felt like cotton.

“S-so… I’ve got my lecture this way,” Marco said in his rambling tone after a while, pointing at somewhere outside, and Jean nodded quietly.

“I gotta leave… this way.” He had no idea where he was actually supposed to go, nor where they were now, so he just randomly threw his arm into just any direction.

“Yeah, so. Okay. Uhm, see you tomorrow?” Marco smiled at him his charming smile. He was entirely unaware of how much it got Jean swooning every time. He vanished within a blink of an eye, and Jean was left alone in a corridor once again, the second day in a row, internally screaming.

He was sinking deeper and deeper and he didn’t know how to swim.

 

His saving grace, however Jean tossed and turned his situation, was once again Eren (a very very tired Eren, but Eren nonetheless) who revealed to him that he had used the money from The Jar to buy one of the last few tickets for Jean’s favourite band from a fellow student who originally had planned to go together with his now ex-girlfriend. A ticket for a concert they had already ordered cards for months ago that Jean cherished like his own eye, a ticket that cost them their entire savings for a new coffee machine and all Star Wars movies on VHS cassette, _a ticket for Marco_.

Marco, out of all people, who had as good as nothing to do with modern, contemporary music, who was the farthest from punk as possible, would join them on the concert of Titan Fall. _Because it was his birthday and do you know how it sucks to party without your friends._

When he hung on the phone with Marco on the other end of the line, he wasn’t quite sure anymore whether Eren’s plan was really as brilliant as it sounded at 3 A.M. after two pots of coffee, seven cigarettes, and lots of sleepless nights beforehand.

“ _Okay, so we just gonna go to the disco and have drinks and dance?”_

“Yep.” Jean made his lips plop with emphasis. “They’ve got some good tunes.” He wasn’t even sure how he could handle his second and third crush being in the same room with him. Somehow it also was easier to lie to Marco than to admit that their joint present was just horribly unfitting for him, maybe just to not scare him away. This was awful, but there was no backing out anymore. _Thanks Eren._

“ _Okay. So, at nine?”_

Jean hummed into the speaker in acknowledgement, absent-mindedly fiddling with the curled wire while wondering what Marco was doing right now, what he was thinking about.

 _Well, probably his improvised birthday party_ , the sarcastic voice in his head replied with a snarl. Jean’s guts tightened in a knot once again. Oh fuck. Oh _fuck_ , _how could he –? Marco wouldn’t –? What would people –?_

_Where was he getting himself into._

Marco soon ended the call when he noticed that there wasn’t much to get out of Jean anymore, and Jean himself sat next to the phone for quite a while after, pondering over life-choices and such while staring into nothingness.

 

He hadn’t seen Marco for the entity that was the morning, noon, and afternoon of 16th of June. He wasn’t sure whether this was a good or a bad thing. Good thing was that he didn’t need to talk to Marco, get irrationally nervous about basically nothing the further their conversation would go, but on the other hand he was unable to find out what Marco actually thought of the idea.

 _The boy was 21 by now, he should know how to handle it on his own_ , Jean reassured himself.

When Jean prepared to head over to Marco’s, Eren was collecting his bunch of friends that would come with them, for better or worse, because Jean was slowly getting the jitters. He straightened his back, tried to think positive, and ran another hand through his hair so it finally sat perfectly.

_You can do this._

On his way to Marco, he caught himself fiddling with his piercings constantly, adding to his other nervous habits such as worrying on his lip, biting his cheeks, or scratching his shorter parts of his hair.

When Marco finally opened his flat door to let Jean in, the latter nearly choked on his spit.

This wasn’t what he expected. At all.

The man in front of him wore the probably skinniest trousers he had ever seen, combined with a figure-fitting white T-shirt and a pair of brothel creepers that he struggled to put on while beaming at Jean with the warmest smile. Jean blinked.

“Who are you and what did you do to Marco,” he asked with a humoured chuckle and hoped that the pink in his cheeks wasn’t too prominent. There was a lot amiss in the man standing in front of him, first and foremost the glasses weren't sitting on his nose, and the hair was styled into an attempt of a pompadour and so much pomade that Jean barely could suppress a laugh.

Marco just grinned even wider, accompanied with a happy giggle.

“Oh, I assure you, I’m still myself.”

Worst was, it looked _good_ on Marco, and he probably wouldn’t stand out too much with similarly tight jeans and Doc Martins and leather jackets surrounding him as he would with his usually more preppy style (even though Rockabilly wasn’t seen so often in a Titan Fall concert.) Maybe Jean got too used to everything that he barely had registered how handsome, _truly handsome_ Marco was, whatever he was wearing. Most of the time it was ‘good-looking for a nerd’ and probably a bunch of ‘we know each other since our first day in school’ that made Jean, well, in love with Marco.

This was something entirely different.

“And why exactly are you dressed like Elvis?” Jean quirked an eyebrow.

“I’m _not_ dressed like Elvis. I’m just dressed according to the standard Wall Hall concert goer. Also where is my ‘Happy Birthday, Marco, I’m glad you are alive!’ from you? I’m disappointed that my best friend forgot about that of all things.” Marco poked his tongue at Jean playfully.

“Happy Birthday, Marco, I’m glad you are alive,” Jean echoed in a monotone sing-sang, much how they greeted teachers in school. “But you do know that this is a punk concert, don’t you?”

“Well, rock is rock, isn’t it that way?”

Jean glared at him in affront, and Marco seemed to shrink under his death-stare.

“It’s too late anyway,” Marco tried to shrug it off. “Sasha said it’d be okay, and Reiner lent me his jacket, so I don’t know. I _unfortunately_ had to rely on other people because my best friend couldn’t tell me that we were going to a _rock concert_ and not a _disco_.”

Jean’s ears grew hot in shame but his death-glare remained.

“It’s punk, okay! And you probably would’ve been scared away if you knew, and Eren and I spent a fortune on the ticket, so I couldn’t let this happen!” It suddenly bubbled out of his mouth and he forced his mouth to stop before other, more juicy secrets were revealed. Marco just laughed and shook his head, amused by Jean’s panic, obviously.

“I would’ve gone anyway, Jean. I’m curious, I’ve never been to such a kind of concert.”

Jean had never noticed how long Marco’s lashes actually were. _Which reminded him…_

“What about, y’know–” Jean gestured at Marco’s eyes. “– are you gonna run around blind tonight, or…?”

“I’ve had contact lenses for quite a while now, I just always chickened out of using them. So I guess tonight is the night.” Marco grabbed Reiner’s leather jacket from the chair next to the telephone and threw it over his shirt with another chuckle. It was a tad too wide around the shoulders but nothing anyone would give a shit about “Now, how do I look?”

Marco turned around with spread arms so that Jean could see all of his Rockabilly glory, looking at him with a curious pull of his eyebrows.

“Dressed to impress,” Jean replied, trying to slip back into his (more or less) cool demeanour with leaning back against the wall and crossing his arms in front of his chest. “For someone special?”

“No, just for _you_ ,” Marco joked with a wink, but Jean could make out a slight tint of red on his cheeks. Under a pointed stare from Jean, Marco gave in and averted his eyes, not without a shy grin that brought out his dimples perfectly. “Well, maybe a little, yes.”

“Okay, then we really gotta do something about this,” Jean said, fisted his hand firmly into Marco’s sleeve and pulled him into the bathroom. Marco stumbled after him in shock, way too confused to give any opposition, and nearly crushed Jean down when they stopped in front of the still partly clouded mirror over the sink.

“We gotta do something about your hair,” Jean announced and grabbed a towel that still seemed a little damp from Marco’s shower earlier.

“N-no Jean, wait! What do you–!”

But it was too late, Jean rubbed with the towel over Marco’s pomade-slick hair, ignoring the whines the latter emitted, and only stopped when Marco managed to gain control over the towel and pulled it away.

Jean hadn’t seen Marco’s hair this curly and dishevelled in years, and together with the big brown eyes staring at him in shock it was –

“Perfect,” Jean said, a little breathlessly, and Marco peeked at his reflection in the mirror that stared back at him just as scared.

“It’s too late anyway,” Marco muttered in defeat, pulling at one lock to actually physically _believe_ what just had happened. Jean felt a sudden rush of guilt in his guts and his cheeks turned pink. “So, do I look okay now?” Marco asked as he turned to Jean, his expression unreadable, just as the tone in his voice. Jean swallowed and nodded, and he was just inches away from grabbing Marco and kissing him there and then. He didn’t.

“Y-yes,” he croaked hoarsely, turning away to face the door, “now c’mon, or we’ll be late.”

He was two steps out of the bathroom as he looked back, Marco still staring perplex at his reflection.

“Why do you think it looks better?”

Jean’s eyebrows furrowed. _Could he tell? Did he even know? Did he even think it actually looked better?_

_Because this is how you’d look like if we spent the night together and you woke up in the morning next to me. Because it reminds me that you’re human, that your hair looks good in its imperfection. You don’t wear glasses either. How else do I know that you’re still Marco, whose hair always got unruly when we went for a swim in summer. Don’t make me forget you._

“As I said, it’s not exactly Rockabilly. Plus everyone loves curls if we’re honest.”

This seemed to suffice as a reply and Marco nodded absent-mindedly, following Jean to his flat door, and closing it after having collected keys and his wallet.

 

The walk to the concert hall wasn’t exactly eventful. They fell into silence for most of the part, the warm air of June and sunbeams surrounding them in an almost magical atmosphere. At some point they dropped small comments about how they thought this shop had closed already, that an acquaintance lived in the house at the corner, or how the dead streets they were walking needed mending for years. The awkwardness from before was forgotten, yet it lingered between them without their conscious knowledge about it. Marco’s laughter ringed more beautifully that night, and the summer winds carried butterflies and let them settle in Jean’s stomach.

_Magical._

The entrance to the concert hall itself was crowded, horribly so, and Jean wasn’t so sure if he’d find Eren and Armin that night at all. At some point they found the actual end of the queue, lined up, and Jean caught a cigarette from his jacket for a much deserved smoke.

Surprisingly, Marco really did fade in with the other people, almost perfectly so, even though he missed the colourful, up-styled hair, piercings, and eye-liner. Some already smelled like liquor and beer, and Jean worried the more about Marco’s well-being.

It probably didn’t take forever until they finally got into the dark basement downstairs even though it felt like this, the scent of sweat and drugs unmistakably in the air, mixed with the fumes of smoking people and the pulse from drums and bass they could feel through the pitch-black walls. Single neon-lights that flickered ghostly through the nebula that wavered from the stage were the only source of illumination in the whole establishment, and Jean felt so grungy to just have made it there. The accomplishment of the year, maybe, and he even got Marco to tag along.

“I’m gonna get us some drinks!” he tried to communicate with the latter through the noise of the crowd, and he pulled Marco to the bar in the foreroom.

While Marco was sucking in the new impressions with wonder, Jean ordered something with vodka for the both of them since he didn’t knew any better, and returned with the two glasses to Marco, a grin on his lips.

“Happy Birthday, Marco. Cheers!”

 

The next two hours went like a blur.

How much Jean loved Titan Fall, he somehow couldn’t concentrate on the music. They were moving in the rhythm, sweat forming on their skin, and they were so close - it took Jean’s breath away. The alcohol added to the heat of a good thousand or more people in the underground hall with artificial nebula that burned in their lungs, black lights and neon flickering over the crowd that was one with the rhythm and lyrics about their shitty world with shitty people and fucked-up dreams.

When Jean felt droplets of sweat run down his back, he discarded his band tee and tried to stuff it into one of his jacket pockets as much as it fit. The air on his wet skin eased the heat a little, not for long, but he couldn’t bother to put it on again anyway.

He sometimes stole glances at Marco, halfway to make sure he still was there, by his side, and not lost somewhere in the crowd, halfway because he couldn’t resist how Marco’s damp shirt clung to his sweaty skin. Marco himself seemed to have a good time with the bit of alcohol kicking in, moving with the crowd and the music, more graceful than Jean probably did.

After two thirds of the concert were over, they coincidentally bumped into equally sweaty Armin and soon Eren, who congratulated Marco with a bright grin. It was hard to make out words because everything was loud, but Marco was beaming and having the time of his life.

Without further notice, Eren tapped one of their front men on the shoulder and yelled something that probably was supposed to be a question almost into his ear, but everything was drowned by guitar and drum-set. The few guys in front of them seemed to understand, though, and nodded, turning towards Jean, Armin, and Marco.

Eren gave Armin an encouraging nudge with the elbow, and the small blond shoved himself into the arms of the men with a wide grin, and they heaved him up together with his boyfriend. Now Eren and Armin were carried from one shoulder and strong arms to the next, the two laughing maniacally from the tops of their lungs.

Marco caught up to this.

“Jean, I wanna do that, too,” he said almost reverently between two songs, and Jean plainly stared at him.

_Did he hear this correctly?_

_Did Marco Bott want to go stage-diving?_

It sounded far too unreal in his head but yet it was real and Marco was still staring at the spot where Eren and Armin went down again.

“Okay,” Jean breathed, “but if we don’t find each other in here, we gonna meet up at the tree at the street corner. Alright?”

“Yes, _mum_ ,” Marco giggled, and once again they asked the guys in front of them for a favour.

 

If Marco didn’t have the time of his life before, he most definitely had it now. He couldn’t stop grinning and laughing and just being genuinely happy that it actually should look totally wrong in a punk concert. But he didn’t and Jean was glad.

However, he himself felt his guts knot more and more the farther they got carried above the crowd, his anxiety rising with every time that somebody couldn’t quite grab him and almost let him drop.

At some point, they got carried into different directions, Marco close to where Eren and Armin should have been by then, and Jean found himself back on the ground again next to Connie and Sasha.

“Hey Jean! We forgot to ask you to maybe wait for us, but now we met anyway,” Sasha grinned and punched him in the arm as a greeting. She had traded her usually casual sweater for a tight black top that showed her belly button, and a jeans jacket with more buttons and applications than Jean had seen in his entire life-time carried on just one of those jackets. Connie looked surprisingly normal.

“You aren’t alone, though, are you, man?”

Jean shook his head with a grin on Connie’s question.

“No, I’m actually here with Marco, and we just met Eren and Armin.”

“So that’s why he asked about the Wall Hall, _everything makes sense now, Connie._ ”

“By the way, we wanted to go for drinks afterwards, at the Maria Rose, wanna tag along?”

Jean just nodded thoughtfully.

“I don’t know if Marco wanna come too, after all it’s his birthday, but I really wouldn’t mind to go.”

“Ymir got her late shift today, so she could give us a discount if her cousin drops by again.” Sasha winked, grinning at the prospect of cheap booze.

“You’re horrible, Sash.” Jean shook his head in amusement.

“You mean ‘horribly brilliant,’” Connie corrected him and placed a peck on Sasha’s cheek. Jean rolled his eyes and refused a snarky remark to this.

Marco was too far away for Jean to start looking for him in the crowd, so he stayed for the rest of the concert with Connie and Sasha, singing along to the songs with them.

 

In retrospect, Jean didn’t swoon over Mike’s latex-wrapped legs as much as he thought he’d do half a year ago, and it was – in some odd, really odd way – reassuring, because maybe the thing about Marco would go away as well.

However, this didn’t change the fact that, past midnight after the concert had ended and everyone was swarming outside, they were greeted by a fine rain that glittered in the yellow of the street-lights, and when Jean finally stepped outside, Marco was waiting under the tree on the corner of the street already, his face blissed out as though he was high.

Connie and Sasha chattered animatedly over the special effects from the live-show as they tagged along, Sasha dancing with spread open arms through the rain, her manic giggle echoing through the street. The rain was running down Jean’s naked chest uncomfortably into his jeans but he couldn’t bother to put on his shirt again, quite glad for the cool on his over-heated skin, bringing him back to reality

“Hey Marco!” Connie greeted him with a hug and beamed like a proud parent as they finally stopped, and Marco beamed at them, unfair dimples and all.

“Hey.”

Jean didn’t know how long he could bask in this serene smile and it was unnerving. Probably forever.

“Looking smart today, huh,” Sasha teased with a wink as she looked him down, and Marco blushed. He was nervous, that much Jean could tell, just as when they were at his flat, and Jean’s guts knotted uncomfortably again.

“How is everyone talking about this, I didn’t change that much,” the freckled man whined, yet Jean wasn’t his best friends for years for naught that he didn’t miss the hint of pride and success in his tone.

“You admitted that you dress to impress,” Jean reminded him, and he couldn’t deny that jealousy was nagging at him with sharp teeth whenever he thought about this. Unfair, really, to fall for a pretty boy who probably had someone else in mind. Very certainly so.

“Yeah, I love you too, Jean, I love you too.” But despite Marco’s sassy reply, the pink on his cheeks still didn’t vanish.

It hurt that Marco had to say it as a joke, it was going bitter down his throat, but he probably didn’t deserve it any better. What was he for a friend if he hadn’t known about something like this, that Marco, in fact, had someone he was interested in, what was he for a friend to not get the slightest idea that this was bound to happen one day either, how could he believe, _how could he be this naïve?_ It felt weird to now be hit by the realisation, that it was real, a real thing Marco admitted, not just a vague fantasy as what Jean for a short time believed it to be. In the end, Marco was a real thing, not just a person on a poster that hung above Jean’s bed. It was bound to happen. Jean should learn to cope with this.

Connie, currently kind of hyper-active Connie, tore Jean out of his melancholic thoughts with a giggle and a question directed at Marco.

“Well now, how was your first?”

Marco chuckled at the soft punch that the short man landed on his upper arm.

“’s good. Real good. Thanks Jean.”

The gratitude that swung with it made Jean feel fuzzy again, and maybe Jean just imagined it but he was very certain that a new, shy blush was spreading over the freckled face in front of them, and it made his heart flutter even more.

How was he not in too deep.

“Connie and Sash wanted to go and drink a round in the Maria Rose, d’you wanna go home?” Jean asked with hoarse voice, mainly to distract himself. Marco looked up.

“I actually would love to come with you guys, if that’s okay with you, Jean. Are you tired? Do you feel okay?”

Jean felt very much like crying because _why did Marco worry about him like that Jesus Christ._

“I’d tag along,” he replied, fiddling with the piercings of his left ear since what else was he supposed to do.

“Then we just gotta wait for Eren and Armin,” Marco beamed, and so they stood there, and waited.

The rain had lessened, only a few drops drew small circles in the puddles in the concrete, the rest of the street and the pavement glittering, the night warm and a bit humid.

Jean entirely lost his sense of time, counted it more with the cigarettes he, Sasha, and Connie smoked, so at _some point_ , Eren and Armin found them and explained how they met about fifty people from university (Jean’s memory of their story-telling exaggerated it too far, but that’s just how it was.) They were glad to go, and so the small crowd walked the discarded streets with laughter and happy chatter. Marco walked next to Jean in silence, his body radiating warmth that Jean would love to absorb even more closely, goosebumps forming on his skin. The silence was comfortable and warm and Jean really wouldn’t mind to slip his hand into Marco’s because it’d just feel right, but he didn’t and it was okay and both had to smile at the antics of their friends.

The Maria Rose was relatively crowded, a miracle how Sasha found a booth for all six of them to squeeze in, and Jean found himself between Sasha on the inside and Marco, who had discarded his jacket by now, arms pressed against him and Jean couldn’t stop himself admiring the firm biceps Marco had developed – by what exactly, though?

Eren ordered shots for all, saying he originally planned to gift Marco a bottle of Jägermeister anyway, and lit another cigarette while they waited for the drinks to arrive. Marco laughed at that, saying that Eren tried to make everyone a drunkard with this but didn’t complain about the offer, quite to Jean’s surprise.

This wasn’t the studious Marco he knew for _ages_ , this wasn’t nerdy-glasses Marco, this wasn’t sweater-vest Marco – how much of this Marco he had known for so long, he was used to so much, was Marco at all? He got used to snarky remarks from Marco and comebacks throughout their last four years in school. Was it just like this, that Marco would leave with contacts instead of glasses every now and then? That he dared to wear something else than his preppy sweater-vests to lectures?

Had Jean fallen in love with Marco simply for the reason that Marco wasn’t entirely unreachable, like Mikasa and Mike were and, in some way, broke his heart? Because he had so many visual flaws that Jean was willing to overlook because Marco would do just the same or at least never got laid just like Jean?

Now that Jean thought about it, he probably was one of the worst human beings that walked the planet, worse than Reagan and Thatcher combined, because Marco deserved so, so much more.

It hurt. Of all realisations that night it hurt the most, knowing that he was just as fake as Hitch and her circle of friends from the bank, just as greedy and self-absorbed, so selfish.

The shots arrived, they smashed their glasses together in a toast on Marco, and downed them, Jean thankful for the liquor that run softly down his raw throat.

Soon, Sasha told them anecdotes from earlier that night, making Marco giggle more and more the more alcohol run through his blood circulation, and even Jean, actually stuck in his more depressive thoughts of how horrible he was, had to laugh, and forgot everything around them.

Somewhere around 3 A.M. Armin announced that he’d leave since he had lectures in the morning, and also Connie bid his goodbye, not without a disgustingly sweet kiss he shared with Sasha. Marco switched sides of their booth to leave everyone more space, and now sat across from Jean.

“So, boys,” Sasha slightly slurred with a mischievous grin on her lipstick lips, “how ‘bout a drinking game.”

Eren’s eyes lit up considerably, Marco looked attentive, and Jean stared at her in complete shock. He hated how Sasha was with those things, but as he knew Eren, he couldn’t talk himself out of this one, especially since that one seminar he had on a Thursday was at 4 P.M. and Professor Hange happy with whatever their (Jean still couldn’t tell whether they were a man or a woman) students came up with as homework.

“Never Have I Ever, I start,” Sasha decided, snipped with her finger, and yelled, “Hey Ymir, give us two bottles for shots, whatever it is, and sit with us, you have the best.”

The woman behind the counter Jean had successfully ignored up to this point grinned at Sasha wolfishly, her colleague rolling his eyes at the freckled woman but let her pass with two bottles of, well, whatever. Jean’s vision got slightly blurry after two and a half hours of alcohol and smoke.

Marco slid further into the booth to make space for Ymir, who, quite like the annoying aunt at Christmas, squished Marco’s cheek affectionately before she let herself fall onto the bench and poured everyone a shot.

“Never have I ever kissed a girl,” Sasha said, and without blinking with an eye downed her first shot. The others followed her example, so Ymir had to refill everyone’s glass.

“Sash, that’s not how you play thi–” Jean tried to pipe up, wondering who that girl was though, but Eren announced,

“Never have I ever kissed a boy.”

Jean groaned because of Eren’s obvious gay ass and his _obvious_ want for just more shots, and to his surprise, only Ymir and he weren’t drinking. Jean stared at Marco. _This_ was new.

Ymir refilled three of their glasses, and then it was Marco’s turn.

“Never have I ever had a crush on a friend.”

Everyone but Ymir downed their drinks, and Jean felt like the ground was swept from under his feet. Marco had a crush on one of his friends, _he had kissed a boy_ , and Jean’s guts churned.

Their glasses were refilled again, now with Ymir’s turn.

“Since I don’t want to get Jean even more pissy than he already is, I’m gonna play correct. Never have I ever ridden a dick.”

Jean choked on his own spit at Ymir’s bluntness, and maybe for his sanity’s sake, only Sasha and Eren reached for their respective glasses.

“Funny how the only real straight person seems to be Jean,” Eren giggled after he had swallowed the liquid with a grin, and bumped fists with Sasha.

“’cause the boy is straight as a board, right?” Sasha winked at Jean, making showers of hot and cold run down his back. Jean knew her sarcastic tone, and she knew.

“Never have I ever talked shit about my friends,” Jean said before anyone else could make another snide remark, and Eren pulled an eyebrow.

“Dig your own grave, boy,” Sasha said as she took a shot, and Jean got white as a sheet as he saw how Marco followed the movement with wide, disbelieving eyes.

“Also, Jean, you gotta drink too, I know you’ve talked a lot of shit about all of us here. Except for maybe Marco, but he’s always been a special snowflake, right?”

Jean tried to kick Eren under the table but instead his Doc Martins landed on the shin of Marco.

“Ow! Jean what was that for?” Marco rubbed his leg, and Jean was one-hundred percent positive that it would give a big bruise.

“I’m sorry, this was supposed to hit Eren, who _deserves_ this.” His glare probably spoke volumes.

“But it’s true,” Eren winked at him. The amount of winking this night was unnerving.

“I don’t talk shit about _real_ friends, thank you very much.” Jean poked his tongue at Eren. “Sorry, but nobody compares to Marco, purest of souls–”

“Aw, c’mon, it’s just because you wanna fu–”

Jean jumped to his feet, his hands forming into fists that his knuckles turned white, and slid out of the booth with wide strides, leaving everyone staring at him but he didn’t care.

His cheeks burned with anger, his whole brain went white with it, and he was glad when he got out of the local and out into the cooler night.

It had started to rain again, heavier than before so he could feel how his hairspray soon would lessen its grip on his hair, but it was a relief for his skin, cool and wet, washing away the musk from the local. He was so done with Eren’s shit; only because Eren had accidentally let slip that he had had a crush on Armin for years and had hence gotten together, it didn’t mean that Jean needed the same. Jean wasn’t even sure if he wanted to be with Marco, he wasn’t even sure if he needed Marco, if Marco needed him in first place if he had already found somebody else. Somebody else to go through a make-over for. Somebody else _who he knew would also be at the concert_ , somebody–

Jean’s eyes widened.

“Jean!”

Jean’s ears ringed from the shout from somewhere far away.

“JEAN! Jesus Christ, _JEAN!_ Why can’t you just, _please_ –!” The voice was breathless, slurring, and for a second Jean considered stopping for the other person to catch up, but he didn’t.

“Leave me alone, Marco!” Jean yelled loud enough for the entire street to hear, but without turning around to face his probably now ex-best friend. He felt hot tears dripping down his cheeks between the cool raindrops that still fell from the skies. Marco shouldn’t see this. Marco shouldn’t see any of this.

“Jean, _please –!_ ” he begged, their distance shorted considerably, but Jean didn’t stop his quick walk, “Please let me _talk_ to you!”

“Why?!” Jean snapped and turned around abruptly, making Marco almost run into him.

Marco was breathless, his eyes wide at Jean’s sharp tone and burning glare, the rain soaking his shirt, his hair wet and curly, the jacket not with him to at least shield him a little from the water masses.

Blood was thundering through Jean’s veins as Marco looked him up and down with a desperate plea in his eyes. He saw Marco’s hand twitch, as though he wanted to reach for Jean, something boiling in Jean’s stomach, something he couldn’t quite put his finger on.

Marco took a deep breath and opened his mouth as though to say something, but he stayed silent, his brows crinkling in a slight frown, as though he was lost for words. He didn’t dare to look into Jean’s eyes.

“You’ll catch a cold like that,” Marco whispered and reached for the zipper on Jean’s jacket, the movement so intimate that Jean’s chest was bursting with butterflies, but he knew this wasn’t real. Not to Marco.

“Who was the boy you kissed, Marco?” Jean asked, his eyes cast to the ground so that Marco couldn’t see the red edge. He hated how his voice wavered, he hated how this mattered to him more than his very first kiss with Mina when they were thirteen and Marco immediately reported to him. He hated how they were so close that he could feel the heat from Marco’s hand, of Marco’s breath against his soaked skin, he hated the scent that Marco carried, that smelled so good and fresh, like summer rain, like – _Marco._

“Eren,” Marco whispered, his voice small, hoarse, and for a second Jean was scared he’d put more distance between them once again. It was a strange comfort to have Marco close like this, despite his feelings leaving him like six tours of a rollercoaster, and he didn’t want to miss this. “We were – we were in eleventh grade and I just … Gosh, I wanted to tell you forever but I _couldn’t_ and I– I thought it’d end it because it hurt but it didn’t and I was desperate, gosh I was so desperate, you have no idea–”

Marco’s hand slipped underneath the jacket, rain-wet lips met Jean’s in a rush, and it took Jean’s breath away. The kiss was warm, hot even, horribly wet with burning tears from both their eyes that ran down their cheeks and collected on their nosetips. As though on auto-pilot, Jean’s own hands slipped into Marco’s neck, into his curls to press him closer, every piece of air between them a waste, and _Jesus_ , Marco was a good kisser.

Jean felt the boner form inside his pants but he didn’t care much, the hand that traced up his naked stomach, sliding over his chest to curl in his neck was more important, the fact that _this was Marco_ was more important than anything else his brain could come up with what might be a little bit uncomfortable.

Marco gasped as Jean teasingly bit into his lower lip, the latter slipping his tongue into the now open mouth, and _God_ , Jean wouldn’t be surprised if he came into his pants. He hadn’t been this excited for a kiss in years, he hadn’t wanted anything else _this much_ in years, his heart beating frantically in his ribcage, skin burning from every touch.

Jean couldn’t remember much what happened between their kiss and them crushing against Marco’s flat door, their hands all over each other, on every piece of skin they could reach, and as soon as they had made it inside, their clothes laid on the floor, and they gasping and moaning on Marco’s couch.

 

Jean had always imagined his first time to be kind of slow, testing the waters with the strange body next to him. Marco was different. Every kiss, every touch burned, the bodies strange and yet familiar, not a new playground but other games to test it, and Jean was happy to see that he’d made Marco just as desperate as Marco made him.

***

The next morning was a horror to wake up to, mainly because Jean’s body was horribly stiff, drool sticking to his cheek, and his head felt as though it was crushed by a giant nutcracker. It was difficult to crack open his eyes with all the dried-up tears sticking them shut, but after the first blurry glimpses at where he were, he didn’t want to complain anymore.

Curled up against his chest was Marco, sleeping peacefully, a warm hand of his placed on Jean’s chest where his heart was, as though to make sure it still was there and beating.

No, Jean couldn’t complain in the slightest.

**Author's Note:**

> Congrats for making it through!! If you liked it, please consider leaving kudos/a comment/both because I AM A HUGE SUCKER FOR FEEDBACK. Thank you ovo
> 
> I also have a [twitter](http://www.twitter.com/inky_thoughts) and [tumblr](http://inkykinky.tumblr.com) if you wanna say hi @u@
> 
> I hope it had enough of 80s flair because I have no idea of this decade, even though my mum technically was a teen back then.


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